The Devil's Necklace. Kat Martin

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СКАЧАТЬ sign for the Hare and Fox appeared.

      “I’d like you to wait,” Grace said to the driver as the coach pulled up in front, pressing a handful of coins into his palm. “I won’t be inside very long.”

      The driver nodded, a grizzled old man whose face was mostly hidden beneath a growth of heavy gray beard. “See that ye aren’t.”

      Praying the man would still be there when she returned, and careful to keep the hood of her cloak up over her head, she made her way around to the back of the tavern as she had been instructed, opened the creaky wooden door and stepped into the dimly lit taproom. The place was low-ceilinged and smoky, with heavy carved beams and scarred wooden tables. A fire blazed in a blackened stone hearth and a group of hard-looking men sat at a nearby table. At the back of the room, a tall, big-boned man in a slouch hat and greatcoat sat at another of the tables. He stood as she walked in and motioned for her to join him.

      Grace swallowed and dragged in a courage-building breath, then made her way toward him, ignoring the curious glances of the men in the tavern as she took a seat in the ladder-back chair he offered.

      “Did ye bring the blunt?” he asked without the least formality.

      “Are you certain you can see the job done?” Grace was equally forward.

      He straightened as if she’d insulted him. “Jack Moody gives his word, ye can count on it. Ye’ll get what ye pay for.”

      Grace’s hand shook as she pulled the pouch out of her reticule and handed it to the man named Jack Moody. He poured a fistful of golden guineas into his palm, a dark smile lifting a thin pair of lips.

      “It’s all there,” Grace said, trying to ignore the bawdy jokes and coarse laughter of the men at the table next to them, glad they were mostly occupied with their drinking and the lusty tavern wenches who seemed to keep them entertained. The smell of greasy mutton made her stomach roll and Grace felt a sweep of nausea. She had never done anything like this before. She prayed she would never have to again.

      Jack Moody counted the coins, then dumped them back into the pouch. “As ye say, seems t’all be there.” He rose to his feet, his features partly shadowed by the narrow brim of his hat. “The plan’s been set. Soon as I give the word, t’will be done. Yer man’ll be well outta London come mornin’.”

      “Thank you.”

      Jack hefted the pouch, making the coins rattle. “This be all the thanks I need.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Best get along now. Later it gets, more chance of trouble findin’ ye.”

      Grace said nothing to that, just rose from the chair and cast a cautious glance at the door.

      “Mind ye keep yer silence, lass. Them what talks when they shouldn’t don’t live very long.”

      A chill went through her. She would never mention Jack Moody’s name again. With a faint nod of understanding, she drew her cloak around her and made her way silently out the back door.

      The alley was dark and smelled of rotten fish. Mud squished beneath the soles of her ankle boots. Lifting her skirt and the hem of her cloak out of the way, she hurried through the darkness, her gaze darting back and forth in search of trouble. Once she reached the front of the tavern, she caught sight of the hackney carriage and the old man sitting on the driver’s seat, and released a momentary sigh of relief.

      The trip home seemed an even longer journey. The lights were still blazing in the windows of her family’s town house as she made her way through the garden. Hurriedly climbing the servants’ stairs, she slipped down the hall and into her bedchamber. The orchestra had stopped playing, but she could still hear a burst of occasional laughter as the last of the guests departed.

      Grace sighed as she untied her cloak and returned it to its hook beside the door. At the end of the week, she would be leaving the house herself, traveling to Scarborough to visit Lady Humphrey, though the two of them had never met. If the escape tonight went as planned, the outrage that would erupt all over London in the morning would be of momentous proportions. Though she wouldn’t leave for a couple of days, a lengthy journey seemed propitious.

      Grace thought of the man in Newgate prison, Viscount Forsythe, who languished in a dank cell, counting the hours until dawn when he would climb the wooden stairs to the gallows. She didn’t know whether he was innocent or guilty, didn’t know whether or not he deserved the sentence he had been given.

      But the viscount was her father and though no one knew the truth of their relationship, nothing could change the fact. He was her father and she simply couldn’t abandon him.

      Grace stared up at the ceiling above her bed and prayed she had done the right thing.

      Two

      One Week Later

      “I see her, Capt’n! The Lady Anne! She’s there…just off starboard, left o’ the foremast.”

      Standing next to his first mate, Angus McShane, Captain Ethan Sharpe swung his worn brass spyglass in the direction Angus pointed. Through the darkness, the lens caught the gleam of distant yellow lights shining through a row of windows at the stern of the ship.

      Ethan’s fingers tightened around the glass as he surveyed his quarry. An icy wind blew over the deck, ruffling his thick black hair, numbing the skin over his cheekbones, but he barely noticed. At last his prey was in sight and nothing was going to keep him from it.

      “Come about, Mr. McShane. Set a course to intercept the Lady Anne.”

      “Aye, Capt’n.” The weathered Scotsman had been in his employ since Ethan had commanded his first vessel. Carrying out Ethan’s direction, the old sea dog ambled across the deck spouting orders to the crew, and the lads set to work. The sails began to flutter, luffing, then refilling with wind. The rigging clattered and clanked as the Sea Devil came about; the heavy ship’s timbers groaned, then the hull settled into its proper course and sliced cleanly through the water.

      The schooner was eighty feet long, sleek and fast, skimming through the waves as effortlessly as the sea lions who followed in her wake. She was built of seasoned oak in the best shipyard in Portsmouth, designed for a merchant unable to come up with the funds once the schooner was complete.

      Ethan had stepped in and purchased the vessel at a more than reasonable price, though he knew he would only have brief need of it. One last mission, one final assignment before he assumed the duties of his newly acquired position as marquess of Belford.

      One last bit of personal business that wouldn’t let him rest until he saw it done.

      His jaw hardened. The Sea Devil was the second ship he’d commanded since he had relinquished his naval commission eight years ago and begun a career as a British privateer.

      He had commanded the Sea Witch then, a similarly well-equipped vessel manned by the best crew a man could have. His men were gone now, lost in battle or dead in a stinking French prison, the Sea Witch rotting in an icy grave at the bottom of the sea.

      Ethan closed his mind to the memory. His men were gone, all but Angus, who had been away in Scotland caring for an ailing mother, and Long-boned Ned, who had managed to escape the French pigs who had taken the ship and make his way back to Portsmouth.

      Ethan’s men captured and killed, his ship gone, and though СКАЧАТЬ